


Amphibious

by Biofuel



Category: Hellboy - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anxiety Attacks, Character Development, F/F, F/M, M/M, Phobias, Recovery, Slow Build, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-10 03:25:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2009148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Biofuel/pseuds/Biofuel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rachel Walker is the last surviving member of her team after a mission gone bad.<br/>Since returning home, her old life has been circling the drain. And really? All the petty things that used to seem important don't even register.<br/>A last-ditch offer from a friend is what presents an opportunity to win back a shred of what she's lost-<br/>All she has to do now is sign her life to a defense department that nobody's ever heard of, and get on the bus.<br/>And that feels like a really, really bad idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

 

Oh god.

It was dark. She couldn't see.

It was hot, but the heat had little to do with the way her clothes clung to her skin.

It was hot, dark, and muggy. She couldn't breathe.

Water was never meant to be used like this.

" _Where?"_

She gasped through the cloth over her mouth, trying to suck some air through the wet material. Oh god, oh god, oh  _god,_  what was she even  _doing_ here? Why? Getting captured wasn't the kind of thing that happened to  _her,_  that's not how life was supposed to work. Bad things happened to  _other_ people _,_ they were never supposed to become reality. This couldn't be happening, this  _wasn't_ happening. She wasn't like this. She was strong. She wasn't a coward.

_Oh god, make it stop. Make it stop. Pleasepleasepleaseplease._

A sharp  _crack_ against the side of her head abruptly ground her racing mind to a halt.

"Bitch,  _where are they hiding?"_

Where was who hiding? Her platoon? They had all been killed in the ambush… none of them had seen it coming. Just barely dawn, and the enemy had come swarming in, metal and bodies everywhere… Oh  _Jesus Christ,_ there was no way this was happening, no way in hell.

Oh and Tanner… and Cook, and Scooter, and skids, they couldn't be dead! They were so alive…. Just a few days ago they were all at the old table in the mess, playing cards and betting shower time and chores, Cook was describing how he and his wife were going to redecorate their diner back home, get a new room installed upstairs for the baby they were expecting…

_Don't think about it, don't think about it, it didn't happen, don't think about it. They're fine, they're fine, they're all okay and they're coming to help-_

What was the protocol for capture? Name, rank, number? She had never considered it a serious possibility that anything would actually happen.

She sobbed through the rag.

Fuck, she just wanted this nightmare to end. She just wanted to go  _home._

"My- my name is Walker, I'm fr-rom third division, my-"

A signal was given, and a hand forced her face down below her shoulders into the bucket between her knees.

Her bound wrists were jarred painfully against the back of her chair, but they were quickly forgotten under the ever-rising desperation for oxygen.

When she was younger, Rachel had inhaled water while swimming. It had torn at her sinuses and left her with a headache.

This was very much like that, but at the same time so incredibly different.

Reflexively gasping despite the lack of air, the water burned at her lungs. The lingering murky bile that remained from the hour before stung at her throat and nose.

Thrashing her head in resistance to the grip holding her under, black and technicolor spots began to swarm crazily behind Walker's closed eyelids. Flash-bang red and blue at the same time, nauseating and panicked.

_Maybe I'll die,_  she thought to herself, and who could have known that such a thing could ever sound hopeful?

A bleary few moments of hazy stillness passed, and she was tugged out again, the rag sack ripped off of her head.

Why was she sucking in air? Wasn't death an escape a moment ago?

Someone's booted foot appeared out of nowhere and kicked over her chair with a  _thunk,_  and her battered head bounced against the hard floor just as a searing rip tore through her right arm. Between the bucket and the water and the dark and the fall she couldn't  _see,_ only _feel,_ and  _It wasn't really happening._

_Shock. I'm in shock._

She lost track of whatever happened next; there was heels and boots and fists and knees and at the end of it all she couldn't quite recall how long she had been cringing into her stomach like she was, waiting for another hit. She screamed, cried, pleaded.

She knew well before she joined that this was a possibility. You hear stories about this sort of thing. Movies, books, war tales. The hero was supposed to stick it through, keep their mouth shut. They weren't supposed to cry or whimper or shit themselves. You never heard about that. A hero didn't tell the enemy a thing.

Reality was disgusting and cruel.

Time passed; she eventually wondered if she was alone, if they had left her to recover for a minute before the interrogation began again.

Her body hadn't had time to unclench before someone returned, dragging someone with them.

One man came towards her and she flinched away, but he only dragged her chair up again to face the limp body on the ground.

"Do you recognize this man?"

One of the figures holding up the man's body tugged his limp head back by the hair, revealing a slack jaw and a gruff, bearded face wet with red- She knew that face. Who, who? It was a dream, she didn't even know herself.

_Scoot?_

So someone else had been caught as well.

Despite her growing dread, a tiny part of her was glad that she could recognize someone. Anything, really. The last few hours- days? Nothing had made sense. People she didn't know speaking a language she didn't understand in a land she wasn't familiar with- demanding answers to questions she had never had the clearance to ask herself. As terrible as everything was, tears gathered at her eyes at the relief.

Scooter- Scooter, who had fixed the caravan's back flat in four minutes flat, who had teased Cook for 'Being a nanny goat all the time', who had once lent her his med kit when she had sprained her wrist- Was that rags stuck to his face? Whose blood?

It didn't matter the circumstance, Scooter made everything better. They would get out of this, they had to, that was how things were _supposed_  to happen. This would just be another adventure, another thing to go home after, another thing for Scooter to get drunk and brag to Alice down at the pub about.

Scooter- who was now awake- and gurgling something.

Scooter-

_Raw meat and one shrunken eye and half a face falling off._

She vomited into her lap.

_Click._  A knife appeared at the base of Scooter's littlest finger, on his left hand, the wrist of which was pressed flat against the ground.

"Now, where is your general and his men hiding?"

"I-"

The thing that couldn't be her friend drooled and moaned, a shredded tongue convulsing through the toothless hole in it's cheek. It wasn't a person. It repelled her. A monster.

She wanted to kill the creature, needed it gone.

"I d-don't know."

The thing that wasn't Scooter wasn't the only one to scream.

And when there was no hands left to saw at, a bullet to the eye ended it's screams.

Rachel Walker of Division Three was silent.

And when, two weeks later, the enemy was dispersed and the outpost overtaken by her fellow soldiers, Rachel Walker still hadn't told them a thing.

* * *

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

"Rachel."

Lights. A pounding in her head.

_Oh fuck, just go away._  She wasn't in the mood for this.

"Rachel, get your ass off that couch and get over here."

Fuuuuuuuuck, she was going to puke.

Groaning at a combination of lethargy and the pounding in her head, Rachel opened her bleary eyes to the face of a rather pissed-looking bulky blonde.  _Who..? Oh. Fuck. Jess._

The blonde in question gave a derisive snort, before stalking off to the bathroom, bottles in hand.

_FUCK._

Rachel rolled off the stained brown sofa with a Thump, wincing at the light and the pain in her head as she scrambled after the woman in her bathroom.

"Fuck, Jess! Don't you fucking dare!"

"Too late."

Flush.

_Holy shit I'm going to kill you._

"Augh, Fuck! Jesus Jess, what the hell?!"

Jessica Lavine settled heavy-set arms onto her wide hips and scowled as the last of the bitter-smelling fluid was sucked down the loo.

"You'll live."

Rachel gaped. Did she have any idea?

She tried to push her out of the doorway, but only managed to stumble and plant one arm into the toilet bowl. She wobbled back up before the blonde could say anything about it, wiping her hand on her pants.

"Like fuck! Do you have any idea how long it'll be 'till I can get another load in? Christ, what the hell? You're being such a bit-"

Crack.

Her head rocked at the force of the slap. She stared, wide-eyed, at the woman before her.

Jessica Lavine, 210 pounds of sass and good intentions and her close friend since highschool.

She had never seen her this angry.

Teeth gritted, Jessica gestured furiously at the empty bottles on the floor, the cans and fast food wrappers surrounding them in a trail that led around the entire apartment.

Her pale face contorted into a snarl, and she nearly spat at her as she spoke.

"How long until you can get another fix? Is that honestly all you can think about? Wake the FUCK up, Rachel!"

The Brunette took a teetering step back, cowed.

"Look at this! Just look! Is this seriously what you want to do with your life?!"

"Yes."

No family, no other friends, fucked in the head and self-absorbed in her own pity. What else was there?

She turned around, storming back to the couch to sulk. She didn't want to listen to someone who didn't understand what they were talking about, and she didn't have to.

A weary, ragged plea sounded behind her.

"Rachel, do you even know how long you've been in here?"

That made her pause.

She had fallen asleep to the news- Was it the third? Or was that the day before? Who even gave a shit. It wasn't like she had anywhere to be.

"I dunno," she shrugged noncomittedly. "Few days. Doesn't really matter."

The blonde froze, eyes bugging out angrily.

"Doesn't matter? Doesn't matter?! Rachel, it's been two months! I thought once you went though counseling you'd be ready to go back through the system, find a decent job, something! I knew it would be hard for you, but you aren't even trying!"

"Don't!"

Jess stopped.

"Don't you Dare even fucking pretend to understand what I'm going through! You think I don't know how pathetic this is? Do you think I didn't even try to go back to normal?!"

"'Raech, I-"

"I fucking tried! I got fired! My parents kicked me out! I still have fucking nightmares and flashbacks and the psychs and therapists nod and smile, and they don't fucking get it either! I'm broken, why the fuck don't any of you get that?! Just leave me the hell alone!"

_I sound like a bratty twelve year old._

It was silent for a few minutes. Rachel sat on the sofa and fiddled with a small pile of can tabs. Jess watched, traces of pity in her eyes.

God, now she felt awful. L _ook at me. Selfish bitch. She's trying to help me, what am I doing? She doesn't need this._

She wanted her to go away so she could drink herself to sleep again and never wake up. Jessica was right, but she didn't WANT to get better. She just wanted to dissappear.

"You just can't live like this, Rachel,"

"I know."

Silence.

"I made a few calls."

The brunette looked up in surprise.

_Am I going to the nuthouse?_

"What kind of calls?"

"Job calls."

Rachel went back to fiddling with the aluminum shards.

A job meant getting out of bed, GOING to bed, working with people who lived happy little lives in bubbles of sunshine and asked things like _"What's wrong?"_  or  _"Did you shower today?"_

No, she didn't want that.

"Not interested."

Jessica sighed tiredly. This was her last shot, honestly. She loved her friend, she really did, but it was just too exhausting. Her boyfriend was beginning to notice her stress, suggesting time off work as a solution. Honestly, it was taking a toll. This was her last shot; if this didn't work, she was cutting the strings.

She took a deep breath.

"Mike's brother in law is in an obscure branch of the government. Security and defense. He says that they're always looking for new willing recruits, and they're not picky about… history and habits."

That earned her a self-deprecating snort.

"You mean loony bin rejects?"

"I wouldn't phrase it like that."

"Sure you wouldn't. That's why I did."

The Blonde tried not to let her inner smile leak onto her face. She knew Rae, she was considering it. She wouldn't be open to banter if she wasn't. This was a little of the old Rae she knew, snotty and arrogant and just a little bit of a pushover.

"From what I can tell, they don't want much. They mostly just need hired bodies to do the muscle work. Goons to cover their real employees. Maybe you'll get to punch some faces, sounds like your kind of thing."

For the first time in what felt like decades, Rachel laughed. Soberly.

"Just tell me where to go."

Maybe things were looking up. Once she got a job, if she got a job, she could get a better apartment in a nicer area, hot running water, stick to her AA quota for once….

Well, baby steps.

If they didn't fire her within a week of letting her on.

Perhaps she could let herself hope a little.

"Wanna help me clean up?"

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

After Jessica left, Rachel scribbled herself a quick note and went back to bed.

Nine hours, three screaming matches next door, an angry dressing-down from the landlord and a visit from the mailman later, she was substantially less hungover and twice as miserable.

She tripped on a carpet nail on the way to the bathroom.

_Fuck._  She hated being sober.

Once stripped down and sitting on the tub rim, she began to towel off what grime she could with her scratchiest cloth.

Halfway through the task she was entirely self-disgusted.

Her hair was matted into a rag at the back, her face was crusty with something hopefully closer to messy food than vomit, and her entire body was itchy and layered with natural oils and dead skin cells.

Jesus Christ, she was turning the water green.

_I'm a fucking troll._

Once passably human, she slumped stark-naked into her kitchen for a pair of scissors.

_"Hey beautiful! Nice tits!"_  came a dozy call from outside.

Outside... When had she opened a window? Ah, Jess. Her optimistic friend had probably been hoping to freshen up the booze-sweat-and-sex musk that had built up over the last-  _Two months? Really?_  It had felt longer.

An open window really wouldn't cut in to the buildup, but it was a nice gesture.

" _Where you been lately?"_

Ah, it was Tony.

"Fuck you with a brick, Tony!" she called back, not particularity concerned with her nudity. Better had seen her in worse.

_"Aw Rachelle, don' be like that. Give us a smile!"_

_Rachel._  Her name was  _Rachel._

He was probably tripping balls on his way to Jacob's yard. Stella likely kicked him out again.

She reminded herself to congratulate Stella for getting him off the sofa.

"Go home Tony. I'm gonna call your girlfriend."

Ah, there were the scissors. By the sink. At some point during a drunken blackout she had ripped the tab off a can and had attempted to stab it open- the mess was gone, however.  _God bless Jessica Lavine._

_"Bitch."_

Something shattered next to her window. Beer bottle, she'd bet. Alcohol was a depressant... Was pot a stimulant? The three cans of red bull Tony chucked at her door every other weekend with a reedy pick-up line certainly were. The poor shit was probably well on his way to cardiac arrest.

Back in the bathroom, Rachel began hacking at the rat's nest grafted to the back of her head.

_I am not dealing with this._

So she had a recommendation for a 'Government branch'? She'd been a soldier before, she could act like one again.  _They had better not mind a woman with a crew cut._

A soft whirring noise filled the cramped, steamy bathroom. Some guy she'd had over- Pete, was it? Had left an electric hair razor behind after a brief attempt to move in. He had been a prick. Good in bed, but a prick. Obviously he hadn't lasted though and hey, free razor.

As clumps of itchy hair fell and stuck to her skin, she regretted not putting on a towel or a sheet on first. Shit, some of it would probably stick around for weeks. She should have done this before scrubbing off.

A pale, worn face stared back at her with half-lidded eyes once she was done.

She imagined the other face looking back and judging her. Maybe huffing out in exasperation, rolling it's dull eyes at the sky and groaning about how stupid she was acting.

"Yeah, me too buddy."

And wow, she needed a toothbrush.

* * *

So she didn't have a toothbrush.

Well, she DID, but at some point it seemed she had been incredibly drunk and nostalgic for her days as Private Walker and in a fit of self-absorbed frustration had spit-washed her entire kitchen floor.

Also, she was out of food.

And so to the store she went.

Covered in baggy grey cargo pants and a comfortably worn-in sweater, Ex-military Rachel Walker stumbled to the checkout with a gallon of milk, a bag of oranges, six tomatoes, some kind of cheap white root vegetable she remembered having once before, a new blue toothbrush, and several boxes of frozen vegetarian lasagna.

She briefly eyed the store's selection of liquor before snagging a six pack of something cheap and disappointingly low-grade. Teensy tiny baby steps.

The young man behind the counter looked a little nervous as he rang her through.

_Good._

Rachel took the time to recount the price in her head. Unemployed, cash was a little tight. There was some compensation coming in from the government, but not much to get by on and it really only scraped her by on rent and therapy.

She was glad she quit therapy. It was expensive and everything at the office smelled like rhododendrons and Pinesol.

At the boy's wavering call for $34.96, she absent-mindedly forked over everything in her pockets.  _$5.05 change._  Her count had been off by a few cents- the new lack of pennies threw her off once and awhile, and prices had evidently gone up again.

There remained a good $1,065 in cash at her disposal- a $3,500 'Going Away Present' from good old mom and dad, ever-concerned for their only daughter's safety.

_"Honey, we just think it would be for best if you took some time away to get settled- You know your mother, she's heartbroken. Please, we love you. Come back as soon as you get things sorted."_

Fuck them and their self-righteous bullshit.

Once, they had been the perfect family- her parents, her siblings, and herself... Her dad's German shepherds, Elliot and Samson. Her cat, Moby, who had been run over by her dad and quickly replaced with a catatonic goldfish dubbed 'Floater'.

(Floater, unfortunately, had lived on an extraordinarily long life for a fish despite Rachel's best efforts and wishes.)

And then she had decided to enlist, and everything fell apart. Coming home had been a mistake, a long stream of 'I-told-you-so's, 'How are you feeling sweetie's,'I understand's, and 'Don't speak to me that way young lady's.

_Fuck, I need a beer._

The bags in her hands crinkled as she climbed the grey-grit stairs outdoor stairs to her apartment. Jess -God bless, the girl was a saint- had given her time, address, requirements, everything. No meeting or pre-screening contact needed. It was a group recruitment preceded by an individual screening process and background check- She required black pants or a skirt and a grey or white shirt, which she had. No dressing up fancy for an interview, just get-up-and-go clothes for a day out. All she needed to do was show up sober and on-time.

_So what I need now is a fatty meal, an orange, a beer, and an early bedtime._

Tomorrow would be another day.


	4. Chapter 4

It was raining. Rachel was staring at the sky and tracking the droplets as they fell, losing sight of them as they came too close to her eyes, and it was raining.

Water, dripping down her nose. Her eyes. Lightly. Gently.

When was the last time she'd stood in the rain?

It was nice.

_I should have brought a jacket,_ she reprimanded herself.

_I'm going to be damp and miserable all the way home._

The squish in her boots reminded her of the holes she hadn't fixed. Hah. Who patched their own shoes? She should probably just replace the damned things.

That's what the woman told herself, at least. Every time.

"I can afford a new blanket".

"I should burn that uniform."

"The kettle never whistles, I'm throwing it in the trash."

It seemed fitting that she had a weak spot for broken, useless things.

Ah, see that? Self-deprecation lead to a depressive cycle that would inevitably end with her at the bottom of a bottle. Alcohol would make her feel better, and she'd feel worse as it wore off. Then she'd drink to feel better again.

She'd learned that in her first AA class.

_Happy thoughts, good things. Look at the positives._

She had been hired.

Rachel didn't know how much she had been expecting rejection until the universe had decided otherwise, but it had all been surprisingly easy.

The applicants, around twenty or so men and women of varying backgrounds and ages, had been gathered together at a rather unremarkable office building and sorted into lines that trailed between uniform mauve cubicles.

She herself had been placed directly between a grandmotherly old woman sporting what simply  _had_ to be dyed orange hair and a tall 40-something man in a non-uniform blue moleskin blazer that was obviously a few sizes too small.

" _I'm here for the fairies,"_  the flame-headed lady behind her whispered in confidence,

" _I know a thing or two about fairies, you know!"_

Rachel nodded with an understanding expression on her face and tried not to inhale what smelled like eighty years worth of regularly applied patchouli oil.

"Did you know that your shirt is inside out?" she queried.

" _Yes!"_ the woman piped back, still whispering.

Fortunately, Rachel was called into a cubicle before social custom required her to respond with something relevant.

Inside, a very bored-looking balding man in a black suit was seated behind a plastic folding table, gesturing to an empty polyester chair.

"Name, sir?"

_Sir._

Choosing not to correct the man, the young  _woman_  took a seat.

Her voice was a fraction too tight as she answered, "Rachel Quinton Walker."

"Rachel?" baldy snickered. "That sucks, man."

Sure. She'd let him have his fun. Why the fuck not.

"Now, ahem,  _Quinton._ Do you have an existing criminal record?"

"No."

"Allergies?"

"No."

"Outstanding religious or superstitious beliefs?"

_Excuse me?_

"…No."

"Have you ever participated in ritual sacrifice?"

There was a pause as the preposterous nature of the question sunk in.

"Is this a joke?"

He smiled at her placatingly over a small pile of papers.

His eyes were blue. Dirt blue.

_What the fuck kind of bullshit colour is 'dirt blue'?_

"Just answer as honestly as you can, sir. It's all part of the protocol. We've had some incidents in the past, I'm sure you understand."

_Incidents involving ritual sacrifice?_

Sure. Why not.

"No."

The process continued on in that direction far longer than Rachel remembered waiting for those ahead of her.

_Jesus, I hope the fairy godmother isn't dead yet._

Most of the application questions were fairly mundane.

' _Have you been involved with our section of public security before?', (_ "No.")  _'What is your current contact information?',_  ("000-555-6932, Mobile.") ' _Would you be interested in renting a dorm on company property?'_ , ("Yes.").

Others seriously called into question her friend's judgment in government jobs.

" _Are there any unaccounted members of your family on either side?_ ' ("My uncle Ted disappeared on a camping trip, but we think he just had a heart attack in the woods.").

" _Any personal experiences with supernatural phenomenon?_ ' ("Not that I'm aware of.")

And of course her personal favourite,  _'To the best of your knowledge, have you or your mother ever been cursed by a gypsy witch?'_  to which she had, after some consideration, wondered if the question was entirely racist or not before replying "No."

At the end of it all they had accounted for no known medical conditions, what she described as 'Mild PTSD and an aversion to water', four years previous experience in service to her country, 130 pounds heavy (After finally gaining back some weight), five and a half feet tall, shoe size 8, no close family or friends, no next of kin (Weird), and an emergency contact number that hooked directly to Charlie Parker's 'Yearling Bar and Nightclub Venue'.

She left forty five minutes after she had entered and was accepted with a handshake and a  _"See you at seven"._

So now it was raining, and she was staring at the sky with two dripping plastic bags in her arms.

One contained her uniform (Probably fitted for a short man, shit) and a pair of shiny, black, and entirely impractical (Definitely men's) business shoes that were likely (regrettably) a size too big. The other contained a toothbrush, some clothes, deodorant, all her cash, and the three remaining cans of pale that rested at the back of her brain like a whale-sized mosquito bite on crack.

The sky was grey. The clouds were slow-moving and ashy. She had been graced with six hours to pack and notify all those affected by her absence.

It was… decidedly unorthodox, that everyone willing to board at the facility would be leaving immediately.

When she had asked, they had assured her that it was simply a security measure.

"Why?" she'd questioned. "Shouldn't we have time to clear out?"

She had been told that due to the precarious safety of the branch, residential recruits with little to no outside social or familial relations were required to spend the first two weeks entirely on property, and that there were systems in place for dealing with their previous places of residence on their behalf.

Seemed shady to her. And entirely too convenient for a guard force.

Something about 'streamlining integration and acclimatizing new members to the quirks of the job', or whatever bureaucratic jargon translated to "We're kidnapping you until you develop Stockholm syndrome or die by yourself".

Which came off as incredibly disconcerting. And very, very not-legal.

Except she had signed some papers and had probably burned her rights to freedom or whatever in the process.

She couldn't believe she was doing this.

Half an hour early for a bus to carry her away to a largely unknown facility where she would work unknown forms of security duties for a company that had hired her around six or seven hours ago, with only a note left on her door to assure he that if this was some kind of messed up human trafficking ring, at least one person in this world would sometime maybe know of her last free, foolish moments.

_This is some Hogwarts shit,_  she realized.

_Here's your bird, say bye to your life for the next eight years._

Hell. At least she was only on lockdown two weeks.

_But really, who_ _ **does**_ _this kind of thing? This doesn't_ _ **happen**_ _in real life._   _This doesn't just_ _ **happen**_ _to ordinary people. This is storybooks. Bad, horribly planned storybooks for nine year olds._

But that did seem like a theme here now, didn't it?

_Stories don't seem to end either._

The woman snorted and began to shudder with a sudden fit of laughter.

Holy shit was she being sappy. What, was that some kind of inner monologue? Did she just have a deep, character-altering turning point?

' _And the beautiful warrior princess rides her enchanted steed to the castle of happy flowers and sunshine._

God, did she just puke a little thinking that?

_If anyone's watching, they'd think I was crazy._

She was alone though, so who cared?

"If anyone's listening, fuck off," she whispered to the air.

Nobody answered, and the rain kept falling.

_Too bad. That's a good place to stop a chapter._

And maybe someone was listening.


End file.
